Jesus Owns Our Future

Divine Appeal Reflection - 258

Today, consider in Divine Appeal 258: "Do not concern yourself with the future. It is not your responsibility. It is totally mine."

To live untroubled by the future is not spiritual naïveté but the highest expression of Christian courage—a trust hammered into being at the foot of the Cross, where every unknown tomorrow is handed over to the Heart pierced for love (cf. Jn 19:34). It is the hard-won freedom that saints, martyrs, and hidden souls have embraced: the missionary priest who dares to whisper “This is My Body” knowing that persecution might strike before nightfall; the cloistered nun whose walls tremble under threat of war, yet whose calm prayer proclaims that history itself rests in divine hands (cf. Ps 31:15); the mother who, despite poverty and fear, teaches her children by her serene strength that Providence is no pious idea but a living care that neither slumbers nor forgets (cf. CCC 305; Mt 6:25–34). Such abandonment is not carelessness but an act of heroic faith: plans are still made and duties still fulfilled, yet the heart clings not to its own designs but to Him who is already present in every tomorrow. Holiness, then, is not mastery over the future, but the humble surrender of it; not fearful control, but a courageous “yes” whispered each day into the eternal Heart that holds all things together (cf. Col 1:17). In this surrender, what the world calls folly becomes in truth the deepest wisdom, and every hidden act of trust ripples silently into eternity.

To entrust the unknown to Christ is not the abandonment of prudence or the neglect of duty; it is the soul’s ascent beyond the narrow tyranny of fear into the boundless liberty of divine sonship (cf. CCC 2730–2732). It is to choose, each dawn, a daring trust: that even what seems wasted, shattered, or unfinished becomes, in the hidden artistry of Providence, threads of glory in His eternal design (cf. Rom 8:28; CCC 313). Abraham set forth toward a promise he could not see, guided not by maps but by the quiet compulsion of faith (cf. Heb 11:8); the widow of Zarephath surrendered her last handful of meal, discovering in her poverty the superabundance of God’s fidelity (cf. 1 Kgs 17:12–16); and the Virgin of Nazareth consented to a mystery that would pierce her very soul, entrusting tomorrow wholly to the Almighty whose ways surpass all thought (cf. Lk 1:38; CCC 494). So too must every heart that hears this call: to kneel before the tabernacle in silent surrender, offering not only sin and sorrow but also every anxious plan and restless ambition—confessing with humility and hope that divine mercy can transform even our frailest fragments into a tapestry far surpassing what our mortal sight could ever conceive (cf. CCC 2090; Ps 37:5; St. Thérèse of Lisieux, Story of a Soul).

Such surrender is not the stillness of despair, but the audacious act of a soul that dares to rest in Love that death itself cannot silence (cf. Rom 8:38–39; CCC 1817). It is this hidden bravery that keeps consecrated women tending the sick in forgotten clinics where medicine runs dry but grace overflows (cf. Mt 25:40). It steadies priests who carry the Blessed Sacrament across ravaged landscapes, where the ruins themselves seem to echo the words, “Be not afraid” (cf. Jos 1:9; CCC 1324). It emboldens young husbands and wives who, against all worldly counsel, open their homes to new life, trusting not in stable markets but in the Providence that fed Israel in the desert (cf. Ex 16; CCC 1604). Each silent act of offering becomes a living confession that tomorrow is not claimed by fear, but consecrated by faith. In this surrender, anxiety is not merely quieted—it is transfigured into peace: a peace deeper than certainty, rooted not in the absence of storms but in the unwavering presence of the One who calms them (cf. Jn 14:27; Mk 4:39). And so, day by day, the soul discovers what saints have always known: the future, yielded entirely to God, is not emptiness to dread, but a canvas for His eternal design (cf. Ps 37:5; St. Thérèse of Lisieux, Story of a Soul).

To entrust the future is not to cast it into an empty silence, but to lay it gently into the Heart of Christ—pierced and open, a refuge vast enough to hold every fear, every unknown, every trembling hope (cf. Jn 19:34; CCC 478). It is to confess with our lives that safety is not secured by flawless plans or human foresight, but by surrender to Him whose providence governs the fall of every sparrow (cf. Mt 10:29–31; CCC 305). In this daily relinquishing, grace loosens the tight knots of anxious self-reliance, setting the soul free: free to love without calculation, to serve where gratitude may never return, and to greet each dawn not as a threat to be managed but as a gift to be welcomed (cf. Lam 3:22–23). The saints teach us this luminous paradox: that peace is not the prize of those who foresee every step, but the fruit of those who dare to walk hand in hand with the unseen God (cf. Heb 11:8; Ps 37:5). Tomorrow no longer becomes a battleground of fear when we give the Heart that was wounded for love control over our job, our families, and our very breath. It becomes instead a sacred horizon where Christ’s providence awaits us, where every step forward is met by grace prepared from all eternity (cf. Eph 2:10; Ps 139:16). Then, even what appears wasted or broken is woven into His design, and the soul learns at last that the safest place for every hope, every wound, and every dream is not in our own keeping—but in His.

Prayer 

Our Adorable Jesus, take our tomorrows into Your wounded Heart. Free us from fear that blinds trust. Teach us to live each day anchored in Your Providence, finding strength not in control but in surrender. May our faith shine for others lost in anxiety, leading them to Your peace. Amen.

Sr. Anna Ali of the Most Holy Eucharist, intercede for us.